


miserere occisio.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Body Horror, Bondage, Choking, Dubious Consent, Existential Angst, F/M, Humiliation, I'm A Trash Can Not A Trash Can't, Implied/Referenced Character Death, POV Second Person, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Rough Sex, Sadism, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25216318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: "When it all becomes too much to bear, seek me out at my abode, in the dark depths of the Tempest. There, you may complete your descent into madness with some dignity, far from prying eyes."You take Emet-Selch up on his offer.
Relationships: Implied Exarch/WoL, Mentioned Aymeric/WoL, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Reader, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 7
Kudos: 83





	miserere occisio.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Rough sex, BDSM with bad etiquette/dubious consent, whipping, bondage, sadism, angst, body horror, implied character death.

After Ryne leaves to check on you one last time, her small cool hand resting on your forehead with a look that reminds you all too much of her predecessor as she murmurs small words of comfort, you start out of your bed and quickly dress, shirking your worn traveler’s clothes and donning a gown, thick, black and austere with a devastating slit up to your hip. You splash your face and neck with icy water from the basin, and begin opening the wide windows, revealing the blazing light outside.

“And where are you going?”

You spin around, stunned; Ardbert stares at you from his perch on your desk. His voice at once comforts and terrifies you, but you know he can do nothing to stop you.

“Nowhere,” you lie.

“Bullshit. You’re going to him, aren’t you? Emet-Selch?”

You sigh, wrapping your arms around about yourself. “You know how it is, Ardbert. I’ve fucked up. This world is _doomed_ if I don’t find a way out. I’m making him give back the Exarch. And…”

“And you’re going to die.” Ardbert finishes. His lip curls with disgust. “Fantastic. The Warriors of Light and Dark get to haunt this shite room for the rest of eternity. _Lovely._ Glad my legacy will end so nobly, at the hands of the Ascian who’s ruined everything, who will use you to end it all.”

“And what do you suggest?!” You shout, seizing the first thing that comes to hand—a goblet half-filled with wine— and launching it at him. As you predicted, it merely flies through him and sends scarlet wine splattering across your desk. “I put my friends through even _more_ suffering?! Another Warrior fails to hold back The Flood, _again?!_ I’m done, my story is over, but theirs isn’t! And if I need to die for them to live, for my life to _mean something_ , then I’ll die a thousand times over, but I cannot, I will not live like this—” And then your very soul _cracks_ , the vile, creeping agony of the Light bursting out of you beating it’s demonic wings against your ears again. You crumple to the floor, clutching at your stomach and wretching hideously. The sickly sweet stench fills your nostrils as you vomit pure Light.

Ardbert sinks to his knees beside you, placing a tender hand on your back as you heave. You almost think you can feel his warmth seeping into you. “Don’t… don’t strain yourself, hero…” he whispers. “Breathe, breathe.”

After a time, you’re able to stand, wiping your mouth and sniffling with tears. “Thank you, Ardbert. For everything. After I die, if you’re still here, please watch over the Exarch for me.”

“Don’t make it sound like—!”

If you listen to his sweet comforting words any longer, you’ll stay and try to be the hero you aren’t; you shake your head and launch yourself out of the window and into the depths below.

With the Kojin’s invaluable blessing, it is a simple matter to swim to the depths of the ocean, the freezing black water drawing you in as you paddle for leagues and leagues. You aren’t completely certain of your destination, but something resembling the Echo presses against your mind, a compass in the eternal dark of the ocean. Before long, you find a glimmering city beneath the sea, empty save for strange robed figures who harken you inside a tall, austere building, resembling the legacy of the Allagan more than any architecture you’ve ever witnessed.

“Emet-Selch’s guest, yes?” One of the figures asks from behind a desk, impossibly tall and terrifying. You nod, and he gestures to a gilded elevator, far more modern than the lifts in La Noscea. You step inside, and it takes you higher and higher.

When the doors slide open, you are greeted by Emet-Selch himself. He is dressed in his characteristic Garlemald finery, a mockery of everything the Garlean Empire has worked for. A wry smile plays on his fine features as he considers his prize. The room he stands in is impossibly fine, august with glimmering architecture and finery. Massive windows expose the entirety of the city below and the ocean surrounding.

“Well, well, well. The Warrior of Light herself. I had feared you would draw out your agony unduly. How are you feeling, my dear?” He holds a hand out to you; it is the gesture of a man asking someone they love to dance with him, perfectly harmless save for those dancing golden eyes bearing your very soul. In context of everything he’s done, the offer seems unspeakably condescending; you consider spitting in his face, laughing at him, but the cold reality of impending death by light creeps into your skin and your slowly stretch out your arm, resting your hand in his. You expected it to be cold; beneath his gloves it is the warm hand of a man, and he lifts your hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss on your knuckles, staring at you all the while.

“Where’s the Exarch?” You blurt. He rolls his eyes.

“ _Really?_ You get a moment alone with me and the only thing you want to talk about is the Exarch? How exceedingly boring of you. He’s perfectly fine.” He gestures to a scarlet velvet couch; the Exarch lies there, limp and still. You rush over to him, checking his pulse, smoothing down his white-tinged hair; he’s alive, breathing softly, as if sleeping. There is no blood, no wounds; he must have healed him as soon as he got what he wanted.

“Take him back to the Crystarium,” you whisper. “ _Now._ ”

“Or what, hero? You aren’t exactly in fit condition to fight an Ascian,” Emet-Selch grins callously. He takes a seat at the fine dining table, an affair of black marble and gold, pouring two glasses of wine and offering you one. You ignore it, staring at him with fire and fury.

“Oh, alright, alright.” He shrugs, taking a long drink of his own wine. “But you’re staying here, got it? You for him. That’s what you’re offering, right?”

You nod, relieved. Promptly, Emet-Selch snaps his fingers, and that is the last you ever see of the Crystal Exarch, of your friend G’raha Tia. You push the thought out of your mind; the Exarch will live, and you will die here, under the care of your bitterest enemy. The cold comfort of death takes you as you stare up at the Ascian.

“Drink,” Emet-Selch bades you, pressing the wineglass into your hand. You take it this time, collapsing bonelessly onto the scarlet couch where the Exarch laid not a second before, and take a sip of the wine. It is dry and bitter, tasting more of blood than fruit, but it makes you feel a little more human, a little further away from the edge of madness.

Then he stands, moving towards you with his characteristic swagger, leaning heavily into your presence and pressing a hand against your forehead. He strokes your cheek as he does so, and you shudder against his touch for reasons inexplicable to you. Your heart hammers, and to your great horror, you’re beginning to feel… aroused, heat pooling into your belly and nipples pricking the fabric of your dress.

“Maybe seven, maybe eight bells,” he murmurs. “The Oracle’s girl may have stalled your transformation, but not by long.”

“What will you do with me?” You whisper, terrified. It is the first time you’ve allowed yourself to feel the fear you’ve been holding back all along, a fear, truth be told, you’ve been holding back ever since Hydaelyn first spoke to you. You feel your eyes well up with unshed tears, and you furiously blink them away.

“’Tis not a matter of what I will do with you. I am here to ease your passing, to give you a worthy death. When you transform, I will end you as painlessly as possible.”

“How can I trust an Ascian’s promises?” you mutter darkly. “What’s there to stop you from unleashing me unto the First?”

“How about this; you either die trying to stop the inevitable, and murder everyone you have ever loved and the Shard itself, or you let me ease you out. Besides,” and his glimmering eyes take on a cold cruelty, “you are more ignorant than you seem, if you think I will simply let my most precious, hardwon prize walk out of here.” Those glimmering eyes flick over your body, taking in the black gown you had hastily put on, a souvenir from a derelict factory in Kholusia. You hadn’t known why you’d worn it, only thought hazily that it might be worth dying in. “Of all the things you could have worn,” he breathes, drawing a finger across the lace collar. You flinch; not from disgust, but from shock.

“Don’t touch me,” you stammer, but there’s no bite to your words, and he knows it well. He laughs coldly, tugs off his white glove with his teeth (and _that_ sends your world spinning), and strokes your bare cheek. It feels… so very, very nice, and you lean, a little, into his damned touch.

“You will agree with me when I say there is much, _much_ unsaid between us, little hero.” His thumb brushes your lips, tenderly. “Much undone as well, hmm? You’ve felt it too. That’s why you’re here, when you could be anywhere else.”

“And what exactly is that?” You demand through the haze of grief and lust, thinking of his casual remark at The Ladder, _not that you’d remember_.

“You’re a sundered Ascian, my love,” and his grin is cruel indeed. “Truth be told, you were Hydaelyn’s fiercest of champions. And I’d be lying if I said that seeing you here, at my mercy,” and with that he wraps his hand about your bared neck, loosely, thumb pressed against your thrumming pulse, “doesn’t give me indescribable pleasure.”

His statement doesn’t bring the shock and fear you had thought it would; you had long suspected his story was truth, that there was more to you than met the eye. But it’s hard to think about how your role has played into everything with those damnable hands curving around your jaw. He’s leaning in heavier now, pinning you with his presence. You don’t want to admit that you lean in a little bit into his touch, but he notices, chuckling as he presses a pitying kiss against your forehead.

“Let me give you the love you are so deserving of,” he whispers in your ear. His other hand travels down your forearms, across your bustier, to your waist. “How long has it been, since you’ve been worshipped by someone the way you deserve to be?” When you hesitate to answer, his hand comes hard around your neck. You take in a shuddering breath as he tilts your head to meet those damned eyes. “How long?” He growls.

“S-seven moons,” you stammer, heart pounding, clenching your thighs together. Ser Aymeric de Borel had been your last, during a particularly freezing night in Ishgard. He had been so, _so_ kind, a lover as generous as his leadership, and while things had laid undiscussed between you, you had always intended to talk with him about such things. But the fate of the world took precedent over your feelings.

He laughs. “I suspect your worshippers reckon you have a new lover every night.” One hand stays at your neck, the other travels further down to your lap, then unexpectedly clenches hard into your apex. You gasp, and to your great shame, your legs spread wide for him. Emet-Selch rewards you with a predatory smirk.

“Come,” he commands, moving off you and leaving you bereft. He crooks a finger at you and you follow him, boneless and weak. Part of you, the damnably heroic part, wonders if he had slipped something into your wine, but the worst parts of you know you know better. You’ve wanted this in the darkest depths of your soul and it is rejoicing at all your worst desires coming true as you follow him to certain death.

He leads to you a gilded door, unlatching it and opening it wide. It is pitch black; with another snap of his fingers, the torches and candles alight, and with a mix of fear and desire, you realize it is a vague facsimile of a pleasure chamber.

“After living for so long,” Emet-Selch drones, “normal loveplay gets rather boring. So I’ve developed tastes some might call… eclectic. But something tells me you aren’t about to run out of here screaming, are you?”

It bears more resemblance to a torture chamber than the pleasure rooms of Ul’dah. While there is a massive, sumptuous bed, of black velvet trimmings, there is also a wooden cross with cruel manacles, and a table with neatly lined whips and pleasure tools glimmering in the candlelight. You stare, trying to tease out the mingling fear and desire, where one begins and one ends. You start as he lays his hands on your shoulders.

“Tell me now, if you don’t want this,” he is standing behind you now, hands roving your body with casual familiarity, that dark voice murmuring in your ear. He kisses your ear, neck, sucking a bruising lovemark into you as his hands clench your breasts so hard it hurts. “Say the word and I will stop everything.”

“I want it,” you whisper, betrayed by the throbbing between your legs as he presses your body against his, erection hot against your back, and with your shameful admission, he spins you hard and kisses you.

It is not a kiss you have ever experienced before, nor ever thought you would. It is hard, cruel, painful; he bites your lip so crushingly you taste metallic blood, but his steely grip on you keeps you pinned against his body, crushing the air clean out of your lungs as he devours you. You try to return as good as you’re given, but there’s little use; he chuckles darkly into your mouth when you run your hands down his chest, fumbling with his robes. His hands rove everywhere, as if he’s done this a thousand times before, as if he’ll do it a thousand times again. He knows exactly what makes you skin light on fire, palms your ass and slips a gloved finger into you with casualness; you yelp, shocked at how wet you are, disgusted at how _good_ he feels. He chuckles darkly into your lips.

Then he drives you down to your knees, and you move automatically as he twitches his robes to the side for you, revealing his cock; you barely have time to consider his girth before he’s shoving himself between your lips, driving it down your throat with his hand bunched in your hair. He hisses as you suck and lick furiously, choking on him, losing yourself in how unspeakably good it feels to do this for him, to be used.

“How lovely,” he gasps, moving in and out of your mouth slowly, languidly. He has all the time in the universe, and you have mere bells. “I have always imagined you like this, but to see it… oh, it is something else.” He thrusts sharply into you and you gag, tears welling in your eyes. He doesn’t abate. “Touch yourself,” he commands coldly. You cannot move fast enough; you hitch up your gown and thrust your hand into your soaked pantalettes, groaning around his cock as you find your goal. You are embarrassingly close to finishing, and he’s barely touched you.

“Make yourself come, with my cock in your pretty mouth, hero,” he grins, fucking your mouth ruthlessly, and to your great humiliation you come harder than ever in mere seconds, your screams stifled around him, the orgasm ripping through you like never before, leaving you bereft, hungry for more, and shamefully wet. He languidly thrusts into your slack mouth before pulling out of you to kneel down and kiss you.

“My good girl,” he whispers, stroking your hair affectionately. He thrusts a hand between your legs, stroking your slickened heat, nodding his appreciation at what he finds. “That will do.”

And you lose track of time itself; there is some memory of him kneeling between your legs, bringing you to a shrieking climax with teeth and tongue and honeyed words, but all you can remember are those _eyes_ , golden, burning, staring up at you, always seeing past your pretenses and into your very soul as you beg him for more, more, _more._ And then, as you knew it would come to, he binds you to the cross with silken rope, moving you like a doll into position. You offer no fight; you purr in satisfaction as he binds you. He blindfolds and gags you, casually pinching your nipples and dragging his hands across your splayed body. He hums his approval as he steps away.

You hear him move to the table, noting his heavy footsteps. You hear the soft rustle of leather; you shudder in fear as you hear him move back in front of you. Then, soft leather strips drape across your body; you yelp and flinch away, breathing heavily.

“Feel this?” He asks you, draping it across your shoulders, your breasts, teasing it down your thighs. You thrust up into the touch, moaning. “Not so bad, hmm?”

You shake your head, already drooling through the gag.

And then he twitches his wrist, and fire laces across your torso, and you nearly bite through the gag.

The whipping is not necessarily painful; you have suffered far, far worse. But it is _terrifying._ He whips you with increasing intensity; five, six times, before pressing hard against your naked, trembling body to cruelly finger you until you’re howling through the gag for precious release, and then, he’ll whip you _there,_ and it horrifies you how close it brings you to release every time.

The last time he does it, your body convulses; you come untouched, unbidden, screaming through your gag, his laughter in your ear, writhing against your restraints; your vision goes white and you fear that your last sane moments will be spent in this humiliating position as your climax drips down your thighs and you hate yourself for how much you want this.

While you’re still convulsing, he unbinds you and wrenches off your blindfold, kissing your mouth with severity, tongue plunging into your mouth, and it feels like deliverance.

“I want…” you whimper into his lips, clinging to him, exhausted, beaten, defeated beyond measure.

“Hmm?” He tilts your neck back to meet your eyes; you cling to him desperately to keep from passing out.

“I want you, to fuck me, to have me, please, _please,_ ” you plead, tears streaming down your eyes, for fear he’ll deny you this one last request.

The smile that stretches across his face at your begging is his darkest yet.

He has you on your back, legs pushed as high as they will go, penetrating you deeper than anyone has, than anyone ever will. He picks up a breakneck, cruel pace, snapping his hips into you, fairly splitting you each time. Occasionally he will abate to rub at your clit ruthlessly, before shoving his sodden fingers into your mouth to choke on while he fucks you again, smiling as you plead for more, harder, _please._ When you come this time (the sixth, seventh? By the Twelve, you’ve lost track) it’s with his hands around your throat, and that horrible whiteness takes over once more. As your world dims to a sliver, the candlelight streaking across your glazed eyes, you’re faintly aware of your name on his lips as he finishes over your slackened body, seed pooling on the hollow of your belly.

“Sleep,” he commands you, one last order for his precious, beaten hero. “sleep, my love.”

And then you feel the transformation taking you over; is this why he did this to you, to hasten your end? Wings explode from your back, your limbs are cracking, snapping, expanding, wrenching; you wrench up the bile of pure Light as you hear the faint click of a gun being drawn…

… and you wake with a start in your feather bed in the Pendants, sheets tangled about you like snakes, a scream on your lips. 

Gasping for air, drenched in icy sweat, you look around you in terror; everything is as it was. There is a basket of sandwiches laid on the table, and cold light pouring in from the cracked window. You wrench yourself out of bed and fly to the mirror. Your eyes are glossy, cheeks flushed, but you are every inch normal. Your mind races as you pull on your clothes, willing the poisonous dream out of your body with each harsh exhale. Your skin cools, the terrifying lust leaves your blood with each steady breath, and you begin to feel more human than you have in days, the light's cruel deathgrip in the far reaches of your mind. 

You stand, change into your warrior's outfit, the armor tight and comforting against your skin. You stare at the light outside, and with your feet steady on the ground, you feel a strength and willpower comfort you as you think of the expression on the Exarch's face when you called his name. You need to find him. See him again. Talk to him. Settle things with Emet-Selch. Save this shard and everyone you love. 

You need to feel the wind on your face. 

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: the title is latin for mercy-killing. i'm not a 100% solid on the conjugation, so don't come for me.  
> [my carrd.](https://thepapernautilus.carrd.co/)  
> love you all, thanks for reading. <3


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